


Something Improvised

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Character Study, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Gen, Prohibition Era, Second Person Narrator, outsider pov, speakeasy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You decide to forget about what you had memorized. You don’t think Varric Tethras is interested in the kind of jazz played in salons and concert halls—neat, tidy rhythms, polite lyrics that surprise no one. Instead, you play the kind of jazz you think suits this piano well; improvised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Improvised

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015. Companion piece here by the lovely Ally.

People say that Varric Tethras is a short man with broad shoulders and a smile that is broader still. They say he has a handgun with the name Bianca carved into it with loving, flowing script—although some say it’s a Tommy, or a BAR.

Least of all these things, Varric Tethras is renowned for owning a speakeasy known as the Hanged Man.

They say that if you were to ask what the large building with a buzzing neon sign of a man hanging upside down _is,_ exactly, he might answer that the space is a new wave multi-use phenomenon, or a gathering ground for interested parties. He might tell you there is a stage, a piano, ample seating for an audience—that those who perform there are among the most talented in the city, not that you’ll ever hear them on the radio.

When you meet him for the first time, you find him to be precisely as short as advertised, as broad shouldered, and you wouldn’t call his smile _broad_ so much as _warm and friendly_. Maybe a little secretive. You don’t see any handgun, but he has a few pockets in his coat that are big enough. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, his hat pushed forward over his eyes as he meets your gaze.

The sign is more interesting than promised—the neon is new, expensive, and you’ve seen it only on a few places on the streets of Kirkwall so it hurts your eyes to look at when it’s on at night. But it’s daytime now, and the light isn’t so bright that you can see the weather worn paint that used to make up the sign—a man in clothing so old-fashioned you think your parents might call it ancient, if they were to see it. Hung upside down, a rope around one foot, you think he had an expression once, but time has worn it away. The neon only outlines his face, some of his clothing—it loses all the detail the paint once gave.

Varric Tethras is warmer than you expected, kinder. Sharper than people say he is, however; something about the way he looks you over tells you there’s more to him than the rumours of a disinterested businessman at best, heavy-handed crook at worst.

He appreciates you admiring the sign underneath the neon, you can tell. He also sees the holes you have patched in your clothing, the circles under your eyes, the mess made of your overall appearance by the wind and the weather.

“That’s me,” he says when you say his name. “How can I help you, Breezer?”

The closest you have ever been to one of the cars he names you after is being splashed by one as it barrelled past you on the street one day, but you quickly learn that the rumour that _should_ be circulating about Varric Tethras is his penchant for absurd nicknames.

He’s got a sandwich, a newspaper, and a briefcase all in hand, so he can’t take the scrap of paper you hold in front of you. He has to squint at it, then grumble that he hasn’t got his reading glasses, so you explain that you’re here about the job.

He gives you a look that is all at once baffled, suspicious and utterly _amused_ that you quickly explain it’s the job of _pianist_ you’re looking for.

“Oh,” he says, and you think he’s either relieved or disappointed but you’re not sure even he knows which one. “Thought I was about to get a hell of a story there, Breezer. Well, come on in and show me what you can do.”

He takes out an old, old key, and ushers you inside the building without any sense of hurry.

You are somehow unsurprised that there is no secret back door, no cellar door, no false storefront separating the speakeasy from the outside world. The fuzz could walk through the same door as you and see the exact same sight as you—the bar, with wine glasses and an obvious tap for what is certainly _not_ the pouring of legal beverages.

Varric opens some of the wooden shutters as you look around the place. You notice that he leaves them tilted up, so that it is more difficult for anyone attempting to peer inside to actually see anything. It’s a small thing, a little hint that perhaps the man isn’t as brazen in his defiance of the law as he likes to appear.

There is a small stage, a simple upright piano, and a number of tables with chairs perched upside-down on them. There are a few lights pointed at the stage, but most of it is lit from the ambient light of the room itself—the light fixtures are in perfect art deco trend, clean lines and dramatic curves, while the rest of the furnishings are a hodgepodge of styles from anywhere in the last century, at your best guess. In spite of broad variations in age, everything seems relatively clean, although there are suspicious stains on some of the floorboards you try not to look too hard at.

You think the sunlight glitters prettily on the glass and metal scattered about—the lights that haven’t been turned on, the polished wine glasses hanging above the bar, a curve of a chair here or a door handle there.

Varric pulls some chairs off a table and sits himself at it. He puts his sandwich, newspaper and briefcase on the table and looks at you, expectantly.

You... expected to have to cite references. Background. Teachers. Education.

It’s a strange relief just to climb the couple of stairs up to the stage and approach the piano.

You pull the bench back and it scrapes audibly against the wooden boards of the floor. It catches on a hole that’s been poorly repaired—you almost put a leg clean through it. You have to shift the bench slightly to the right to accommodate the hole, and have to adjust so you’re sitting relatively centered to the keys.

The piano is old and worn. You can feel subtle grooves in the ivory keys where the same chords have been played, over and over, by many sets of hands. The pedals are a touch clunky, but after a few experimental taps of each of them they seem to be in working order. There’s a stain on the front end of the piano that you keep telling yourself is from some dark spirit, and there’s more than one gouge from a knife.

You’re a far cry from the baby grand in the salon you last played at, with its perfect tuning and glossed finish. But you think that piano might be able to tell at least one story that would amuse Varric Tethras—not as many as _this_ one, you amend with a small smile.

You decide to forget about what you had memorized. You don’t think Varric Tethras is interested in the kind of jazz played in salons and concert halls—neat, tidy rhythms, polite lyrics that surprise no one. Instead, you play the kind of jazz you think suits this piano well; improvised.

The song you play for Varric has a deceptively meandering rhythm—but outside little filler notes, little flairs of your fingers and quick trills, the baseline is steady, squared like the line his shoulders make in his coat; the even, punctual beat of his steps in the empty bar. The melody is his smirk, the quick and precise focus of his eyes on all the parts of you that you have tried to hide. Everything else is a distraction from these—the red silk of his shirt in a bright run, the movements his hands make echoed in a pair of heavily syncopated triplets.

It’s not polished—it would earn you no standing ovations at the last place you played. You would have been kicked out on the spot for playing something so _casual_ there.

Varric is smiling, however, when you’ve finished. “You got the job, Breezer,” is all he says.

 

The first time you meet the bouncer is when he nearly throws someone into your piano while you’re sitting at it.

The man lands half on the stage, a hand’s width away from crashing into you or the much abused instrument you’re playing. You don’t even have the time or the frame of mind to release a shriek—dignified or otherwise—and dart away before there is a hand on the man’s head, and a pale haired man who looks like he could not possibly lift a man half the size of a horse over his head does precisely that.

He carries the offender through the crowd, weaving between tables with a grace to his movements that makes you think, bizarrely, of dancing.

“So skittish, Kitten,” the singer, Isabela, teases you, and you realise you’ve stopped playing to watch the man slip between the tables with more ease than the waitresses. All while carrying a man who’s built like a brick wall over his head.

The first time you speak properly with Fenris, you’re hunched over the bar, sunlight coming in through the cracks in the wooden blinds, scribbling frantically in a notebook—there’s a rhythm in your head after watching Fenris move, and for _days_ you’ve been trying to untangle it, figure out what’s the _on_ or the _off_ beat and what sort of melody goes with that anyway.

He’s beside you where there was empty air moments before—you hear a glass being pulled down from above you and you nearly jump off your stool in fright.

Fenris is scowling down at you, the pointed tips of his ears sticking out of his messy white hair.

“Thirsty?” he asks, and you nod wordlessly.

He digs around under the bar until he finds a bottle. Your eyebrows rise when you see it. Not the kind of stuff that you’re used to seeing in places like these, this is _genuine_ wine. He uncorks it and pours you a glass, then himself one. It is red, darker than you’ve seen poured into a glass in years. He hands it to you, and you think of swirling the glass, as you’ve seen men and women in fine clothing and rich jewellery do, but you’re not sure what they’re looking for when they do.

Fenris sits a few stools away from you, in silence. He does not swirl his glass before he drinks from it, and so neither do you.

The wine is bitter and earthy, and you must make a face because Fenris smirks when he glances over at you.

“It’s supposed to be an acquired taste,” he explains. His fingers hold the stem of his glass with poise, delicacy you didn’t expect from him.

You don’t know how one is supposed to _acquire_ a taste for something like that, or why they’d ever want to.

“By drinking in excess,” he clarifies. “As for the why; posturing. It used to be quite expensive. Now that it’s illegal, doubly so, but they water it down first.”

Fenris doesn’t look like the sort of man to have an expensive taste in wines. He is possibly more dishevelled than you—he hasn’t changed into the uniform Varric provides him with yet, and his coat is oversized, his hat dusty, his pants mismatched. You don’t think his shirt has ever been pressed. You don’t think Fenris cares.

“This is supposed to be a prime vintage for this wine,” he continues, picking up the bottle and looking at the label. “I knew someone who once paid enough money to buy half the city for a bottle like this.”

There’s something... haunted in Fenris’ expression. You can’t quite figure out what it is, but—his brows furrow, and something in his green, green eyes darkens. His grip on the bottle tightens and you think it will shatter.

The door opens. He looks up, and you lean back on your stool to peer around him.

“Fenris!” a woman calls from the doorway, and in the blink of an eye her arms are thrown over his shoulders, her face buried in his neck. He laughs, low and even, as she peppers blatant kisses all along his collarbone.

You _stare_ , cheeks scalding. It’s absolutely scandalous and you can’t possibly be seeing what you’re seeing, but you can’t make yourself look away.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris says, smiling. Whatever memory gripped him moments before is gone, and his eyes are bright, his head rolled back. His hand leaves the bottle to steady Hawke instead, and when she pulls back he looks down into her eyes with such obvious adoration that you finally manage to look away.

Wait. Wasn’t Hawke the bartender?

You look up again, and—you have to _blink_ rather quickly, because there’s the face you recognise, and the voice is the same, brash and loud and brilliant. She is wearing men’s clothing, which is doing little to hide her figure as she straddles Fenris’ lap. Her laugh is the same—dusky, warm, inviting, and you heard it over and over the last couple of nights when the music paused, _but not quite like this_.

She plucks the glass from his fingers. She takes a drink, then makes a disgusted face.

“Fenris! This is awful!”

He holds her, helping her keep her precarious balance on his lap. He smirks. “I know,” he says, and he kisses away whatever words she opens her mouth to say.

You take your tattered notebook and leave them somewhere in between Hawke muttering, _give me a good cider any day_ and Fenris slipping her suspenders over her shoulders.

When it is finished, Fenris’ is song has a brutal beat, quick rhythms and something harsh, something raw driving it. But then someone plays a trill not unlike Hawke’s laughter, and the song shifts into something warm, a little gentler, a little hopeful.

 

Anders doesn’t work at the Hanged Man, but he’s there so often that you think he does for a solid week, before you witness he and Fenris nearly coming to blows.

When it happens, you are in the midst of writing something— _complicated_. You’re not sure how to get the tinny quality you want to the sound _live_ , instead of listening through the radio, and you’re contemplating asking Varric if someone will stand off stage with a large fan or a piece of paper and wave it around in the air to see if it will emulate the effect.

You’re leaned over, the piano propped open, messing around with the strings when they enter the building, in the middle of that argument that never seems to end between them.

“If I wanted to hear to this all day,” Fenris snarls, “I would listen to that filth you spout on the radio.”

“Even _you_ understand that your situation is precarious, here,” Anders says, speaking right over Fenris without really listening to him. “Any day the police could grow tired of taking Varric’s bribes and storm the place.”

“Maybe they would find you here instead, and I would have to listen to your senseless prattle no longer,” Fenris grumbles, throwing his rain-soaked jacket on the bar.

Anders paces restlessly, dripping all over the floor. “Didn’t you hear? Just down the road, just last night—”

“They dealt in _heroin_ , not alcohol.”

“Burnt to the ground, Fenris! No trial, no investigation, no warning—”

“Forgive me if I refrain from weeping,” Fenris snaps, more tension in his shoulders than the strings under your fingers. “You preach the virtues of liberty and justice—”

“—How many innocent people died in that fire, people who were victims of the drug—”

“Did all your raving over the radio reach them?”

Anders stills, just for a moment. There is a shadow across his face—slashes of light from in between the blinds, grey with the storm clouds that have settled over the city.

“Blondie, Broody,” Varric snaps from the doorway, and all three of you turn at once to see Varric standing there, the door shut behind him. No one seems to have heard him come in. “What have I told you about terrorizing each other while Broody’s on my dime?”

“I have not started work yet,” Fenris snaps, and Anders stalks towards the door without another word.

Varric tries to catch his arm as he passes. “Blondie,” he says.

Anders jerks away from his touch. “I’ll go where I’m wanted,” he snaps, and storms off into the rain.

You do not think you will be able to finish Anders’ song; there are dark, dark circles under his eyes, and something darker still within them. You’re not certain you want to know what it is.

 

You think, at first, that Isabela will be easy to write about. The sway of her hips lends itself _perfectly_ to jazz—at least the kind played at the Hanged Man. She sings with such a low and sultry voice that you think she’s the kind of woman who’s been a muse a dozen times over, and more.

It doesn’t take long for her to purr in your ear and offer a tumble behind the curtain after the show. She likes to make you flustered in the middle of a show—and you like the sound of her laughter at your expense, warm and honey sweet.

You stay late sometimes, long after the last drunk has been kicked out by Fenris. Sometimes, just to help Hawke finish cleaning or to fix that pedal that’s been troublesome since you started.

One such night, you and Hawke finish sweeping rat carcasses out of the cellar, and Hawke hushes you mid-sentence, wide-eyed, her head tilted with an ear toward the cellar door.

Isabela is singing, but not as she does when she’s performing.

Hawke creaks open the door and you both creep up, sitting under the bar to listen. Isabela is singing something like a lament, her voice sounding used and roughened from alcohol, and you don’t know the language or what it means but you can hear the _pain_ , the want, the loneliness inherent in the slow swell of her voice.

The song reminds you of the sea—of the ebb and flow of the tide, of ships lost in its depths, of dark storms and darker thoughts that only come about in the depths of night, the most persistent moments of loneliness and melancholy.

“Oh,” comes Merrill’s voice once the song has drawn to a finish. “Bela, that was _so beautiful_. Why don’t you sing like that every night?”

Isabela laughs. You hear a bottle being dragged across the uneven wood floor of the stage. “People come here to drink and forget, Kitten,” she says. “Not to remember.”

When you finish it—the real one—you play Isabela’s song for her after hours one night. She watches you with an expression you can’t read, but you think you understand.

“Can’t play that for Varric’s crowds,” she tells you, as if she is cross, but she is smiling as she says it, her eyes glistening.

 

You often come in early to fix the piano, to practice or to scribble furiously in your notebook, and so you often hear Merrill singing in the kitchen, completely unaware anyone can hear her.

She sings everything from bawdy drinking songs to ancient hymns, all off-key, all of them Dalish through and through. Sometimes she sings laments, ballads, love songs or bits of poetry, and although she has no skill for it you sometimes stand outside the kitchen door and listen, because her love for it is so bright and warm that nothing else matters.

Once, you come in and she is weeping.

She is trying to sing a song she cannot remember the words to. You pause, your coat half off your shoulders and you listen, listen to her cursing and to the same line repeated over and over, each time trailing off into the air unfinished, _each time_ with more desperation than the last.

You lean in the doorway to see her sobbing over a stock pot.

“Oh,” she says, and she tries to scrub at her face with her apron. She only succeeds in getting flour all over herself. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. You’re awfully early, would you like to come in? I’ve brought some bread from down the street, still warm.”

In spite of any protest you might make, it doesn’t take Merrill much effort to sit you down with a bowl of soup and a fistful of bread, generously buttered. You compliment the soup, and she beams.

“It’s from my clan,” she says, brightly, “it’s such an old recipe—that is, I’ve had to make some rather blasphemous adjustments, no one likes to sell mushrooms here that aren’t imported from Orlais and wild boar is far too expensive... and the herbs aren’t quite right, no one will let them through the border these days and I haven’t had the time to go harvest them myself...”

She breathes in, then out. “It’s—today is meant to celebrate Sylaise,” she finishes, weakly. “You’re meant to simmer the soup over the fire for a night and a day, and there’s a song you’re meant to sing when it’s done, but...”

Her eyes are so impossibly lost, impossibly wide.

“I never learned it. The Keeper always sang it, and I never learned it.”

Your heart twists. You swallow your last mouthful of bread and invite Merrill to sing with you.

She teaches you a couple of the most ridiculous songs you’ve ever heard—and she laughs as you play them, delights at how quickly you pick them up. She sings in Elven, in Common, then in some mix of the two, and you think the company and the laughter makes her singing stronger, somehow.

When the others are piling in, you are playing Merrill’s song for her—the beat is quick, bright, and Hawke immediately takes Merrill up in her arms and they dance the Charleston. Neither of them is particularly graceful, and they laugh as they stumble about on the stage, trying to keep up.

You know that Merrill’s song is not a perfect replica of her—you keep the melancholy out, shut the loneliness out of the rhythm and the melody. You keep it warm and bright, its rhythm light and quick, and you think it needs no other accompaniment than Merrill’s laughter, the flush on her cheeks.

Everyone sits and eats the soup she has made before the Hanged Man opens for the night, and Merrill leaves a smear of it on your cheek when she kisses it in thanks.

 

One night the Hanged Man is closed, and Aveline Vallen and her fiancée come for a visit.

It’s a little strange, to have a policeman and his wife in the room—especially since his wife is some sort of private detective. Or... _something_. You’re a little fuzzy on the details.

“Jeven is a mad man,” Aveline is saying over the roast Merrill has cooked, “and he needs to be stopped.”

“Pass the potatoes, love,” Donnic says to her with a smile, and she does so without even skipping a beat.

“There’s supposed to be procedure! You can’t just march into a building without any kind of warrant!”

“Technically,” Fenris offers, “they can.”

“Yes, but they shouldn’t be able to,” Anders says, and half of the table visibly cringes at the fight that’s about to start.

“How’s the newest song coming along, Breezer?” Varric asks, as deliberate and obvious a topic change as any.

“You write music?” Aveline asks, her gaze focused on you with such an intensity that you wonder that she isn’t a _real_ cop. “What kind?”

“Jazz!” Merrill exclaims, the tassels on her dress swaying with her every movement, her hat sitting slightly askew. “About all of us!”

You almost choke on the mouthful of food you’ve just tried to swallow.

“All of us?” Fenris asks, suspiciously.

“Hush,” Hawke tells him, a hand resting easily on his. “You should play something for Aveline and Donnic. Aren’t you two still looking for someone to play at your wedding?”

Aveline is still looking at you like you’re sitting on the other side of a table in an interrogation room, not a speakeasy. “Well,” she says.

“You should hear them!” Merrill instantly leaps to her feet. “Oh, play my song! Please?” she begs.

The others manage to convince her to eat the rest of her food, first, and you stuff your face as quickly as possible _because you can’t say no to Merrill._

You have played Merrill’s song for her so many times upon request that you could probably play it if you fell asleep at the piano, but not a soul complains—Fenris almost does, but Hawke gives him such a _look_ that he immediately shuts his mouth and pretends to examine his shoes.

Because you know the song so well, you are able to watch Aveline and Donnic dancing together. Neither of them are particularly graceful, and they don’t seem to know any of the steps to the popular styles; they shuffle more than dance, really. Aveline steps on Donnic’s toes as often as he steps on hers.

Hawke and Fenris are Lindy hopping, Fenris lifting Hawke high in the air as she _laughs_ , and you lose count of the number of times they almost barrel right into Aveline and Donnic. Fenris steers them safely away every time, smirking to himself as Aveline turns long enough to berate them, loudly.

Each time she turns back to Donnic, her scowl melts away into the sweetest of smiles.

Drinks are served after their wedding at the Hanged Man, and they dance to your playing once again—the guests find the military attentiveness to a set rhythm peculiar, a little old fashioned maybe, and you think you hear someone call the baseline _clumsy_ , but Isabela’s voice soars over it all sweet and warm, gliding above the room with such devotion, that Aveline thanks you at the end of the night and calls it _a lovely gift_.

 

A priest walks in during the night sometimes, when the Hanged Man is full to brimming of men, women and moonshine. He tries to convince Hawke and Merrill to repent their ways, to quit here or to _at least_ attend service at the Chantry. Isabela’s grin when she sees him is spectacular, and she convinces you with a wink and a promise of later favours to play the raunchiest song you both know.

The priest leaves, flushing scarlet, and Varric gives you such a talking to about it later but even he can’t hide the smirk on his face.

 

Hawke takes you rum running precisely once.

You’re not entirely sure why you agreed to go with her—on second thought, you’re not entirely sure you _actually_ agreed in any way, shape or form. One moment you’re happily at your piano, the next you’re sitting in the passenger seat of Hawke’s broken-down truck, sliding your ass as far forward as you can, hoping not to be seen through the windows.

“Scared of the great outdoors?” she teases as you narrow your eyes suspiciously at every tree you pass. “A little sunshine won’t kill you, you know.”

No, but a bullet from a gun might. Like the BAR Hawke’s got stashed by your feet, or the Tommy in the back. Or a cop’s handgun—or an exploding moonshine still—or—or—

Hawke laughs, bright and loud, and you realise you’ve been rambling. Her hat is slightly askew, and the sunlight is in her hair, in her eyes, and they are such a sharp grey and she is suddenly so _beautiful_  in a way you’ve never noticed before that your breath stills. From this angle you can see the curve of her jaw, the line of her neck just before it’s disguised by the high collar of her shirt. She has one hand on the wheel, one on the clutch, and with her sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of her shirt undone she looks at remarkable ease, smiling at the light filtering through the leaves of the trees.

“Most of the moonshine here’s made from apples,” she says. “Well, mostly apples. All these orchards—they used to make cider and apple brandy, some of them. Back when it was legal. Now, they have all these trees—and these apples aren’t really for eating, too bitter. Too small.”

Something almost like sadness passes over her features, something a little like solemnity. With the sunlight and the wistful smile, she almost looks like a painting—there’s a story there she’s not telling, but you can read it between the lines. In the strength of her arms bared now, with the sun-kissed freckles across the bridge of her nose and the familiarity of the truck under her hands. She might be called a dame if she wore women’s clothing, but her hands are worn from work outside, in the earth and dirt. And she has the temperament of a bearcat besides.

She points out the varieties of trees as you pass, which one brings what flavour to a cider. “Not in moonshine, you know. It all just goes in the still at once, now, and we have to mix all that sweet shit in to mask the alcohol. Ever had a good cider, straight? No?” She _tsks_ , and her head _just_ inclines. “What a goddamn waste.”

There is something distant in her grey, grey eyes.

The pickup is the easy part. Hawke’s beast of a dog jumps out of the back as soon as the vehicle stops, and although you have every urge to hide in the truck while Hawke deals with what are certain to be the most shady individuals you have ever met. She merely fixes her cap on her head and drags you out by the arm instead, laughing as you stammer out half-baked excuses and pleas.

You are greeted by an old farmhouse, some fat horses, and a very charming old lady who feeds you too many slices of pie for your own good. There are suspicious-looking young men with a surprising assortment of gardening tools loitering around, but Hawke charms the most stern of them into laughing—you are beginning to see how she captured Fenris’ attentions. At the end of it all you help Hawke load up crates and crates full of moonshine-filled jars, the dog shoved in between you and Hawke, and one apple pie that sits on your lap for the drive back to Kirkwall, still warm.

As the sun begins to set, you almost tell Hawke that maybe you wouldn’t mind helping her out again. Then she glances in the rearview mirror and _smirks._

“Hold onto the pie,” she tells you, casual as anything.

You have a single moment to think, _Oh no_ , and then Hawke changes gears and the truck _lurches_ forward.

Hawke’s truck has seen better days, and if you thought it about to fall apart when Hawke was taking these old dirt roads at a leisurely pace then oh, _you have never been more wrong in your life_. You can hear so few things—the sputter and roar of an engine that has no business doing either, the snarling and barking of the dog in your ear, the _rattle_ of everything around you as the vehicle does its best not to fall apart, and Hawke’s uproarious, delighted laughter in between her rather colourful insults thrown at people who cannot hear them.

There is a high, shrill noise above it all. It takes you far too long to realise it’s your own shrieking.

You think you hear gunfire. Your instincts tell you to duck, but the _singular_ command Hawke has given you was to protect the pie, and in your terror-driven state that mission is of life-or-death importance. You clutch to the dish containing it, and you sink as low in the seat as you possibly can, not even daring to peek out the window. Looking up, you can see nothing but the blood red light of sunset coming in, dark shadows hurtling by at breakneck speed.

You’re not sure if you’re going to die from a stray bullet or Hawke’s truck falling apart at the seams. You are certain it will be one of them, and you’re not sure which you prefer.

Eventually the truck’s rattling begins to steady, and Hawke slows down to a crawl. You venture a glance out the window to see that you are no longer on the road, but somewhere that must be safe because Hawke has stopped.

She peers around the dog, now happily panting, to grin at you. “Having fun yet?” she whispers.

You stare at her.

“Oh good,” she says, looking down. “Pie’s still in one piece.”

She takes it from you, and you can’t help a strangled cry of distress. _More like a peep_ , it’s so weak. You actually reach for it as she pulls it over to her side.

You watch with mixed horror and fascination as she pulls a fork out of her pocket, then immediately begins to dig in. She eats several mouthfuls before offering you some.

You shake your head, mutely.

She shrugs and says, “Your loss. We’re going to be here a while.”

 _What_.

“What, what?” She blinks rather owlishly at you, and you can make out only the outlines of her smirk in the rapidly fading light. “Tank’s empty. Forgot to fill up before we left.”

You stare at her. She holds out the pie once again, fork stuck right in the middle.

 

You’re not sure how long you have slept, but you’re woken abruptly by someone’s cursing in the night. You lie there, pressed in between the door and the snoring dog, trying to remember where you are when Hawke jumps out of the vehicle.

“Fenris!” she exclaims. “You came for me!”

“ _Fastevas_ ,” is his response. “ _This_ is where you’ve been all night?”

“Not _all_ night—did you bring gas?”

“ _Gas_.” He curses again, and you do not recognise the language he’s speaking. “We were about to storm the police station looking for you! All this because you forgot to fill up before you left?”

“To be fair, we _were_ being chased at one point.”

Fenris makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat. “Hawke,” he says, his voice low. “I have told you—”

“And I keep telling you—”

“—don’t do this again.”

Hawke laughs. “Fenris,” she says, all softness and amusement, and his answering sigh is almost a laugh in and of itself.

You listen for a moment to the rustle of their clothing, the sound of their bodies pressing against the side of the truck. Then you shove the dog off you, and climb out of the truck.

You pause a moment to stare at them, but they are mere shapes in the darkness and they are not looking your way. You consider waiting for them to finish, but then Hawke starts _moaning_ and Fenris starts murmuring _Marian_ and you, quite frankly, have had enough.

It’s easy to find the car Fenris has driven here, still parked on the road. It’s even running, the headlights on, and you hold the passenger door open for the dog to jump in. You open the window for him before sliding into the driver’s seat yourself. You mess with the radio until you find the only station that carries this far away from town—Anders’ ridiculous political channel, which is forced to change frequency every few days.

 _“Meredith Stannard’s Temperence Movement is in truth anything but,_ ” Anders’ smooth voice slips from the tinny little radio. “ _She and her like insist we follow standards that they themselves will not adhere to—and through their influence, through her iron grip on this city state’s elite and powerful, we the peons below her gaze are brought under every scrutiny, and only our thoughts are truly our own as she breathes down our necks, all while sipping the finest of Tevinter wines and Rivaini spirits._ ”

You hum to yourself as you take the fordor out of park, and pull it back into the road proper. You’re not sure where you are, so you pick a direction and drive—the next road sign you see points you to Kirkwall, so you keep going. It’s been a while since you last drove, and the clutch is a little sticky, but all in all you manage.

The dog sticks his head out the window as you drive, and you tap a quick rhythm on the wheel. Anders’ words bleed away into the night air as you think of a melody—something quick like wit, sharp like a knife, and bright like laughter, like a wistful smile in the sunlight and a name whispered in the dark.


End file.
